I Promise
by Mourningdawns
Summary: "Neal, Neal, you with us?" Neal moaned weakly.   "I'm here. My hands hurt. Why do my hands hurt?"   Peter tries to comfort Neal.  UPDATE! I can't think of what to do to continue this, but anyone is welcome to do it if they want.


Peter tore open the basement door and he and his team, minus one important component, rushed down. The room was large and dank, darkness concealing the corners…but Neal had to be there. A quick sweep of the flashlight illuminated a huddled lump on the far side of the room. Wordlessly, they rushed closer.

Peter dropped to his knees text to his partner, praying that he was alright. It had been days since he'd last seen Neal, since he'd wanted to smack that cheeky grin off his face. Since then, he'd barely slept, staying at the office for long hours, piecing together what had happened.

Diana held her flashlight over him and she, Peter and Jones drew a sudden breath. Neal looked like death warmed over. His hair was matted down, his cheeks smeared with grime and blood. The light must have woken him up, because he shifted.

"Peter?" His voice was small and timid.

"Yeah, it's me. Jones and Diana are here too, ok?"

"Ok…" He closed his eyes. Peter bit his lower lip in concern.

"Neal, Neal, you with us?" Neal moaned weakly.

"I'm here. My hands hurt. Why do my hands hurt?" Neal looked up at Peter, his blue eyes pleading for an answer.

"Neal, it's ok. Everything's gonna be fine." He looked up from his friend. "Jones, call an ambulance and go upstairs to make sure they can find us." Jones nodded.

"On it, boss." Diana and Peter turned their attentions back to Neal as the younger agent left.

"Neal, what else hurts? What happened?" Neal closed his eyes.

"Everything hurts. But…but my hands. Peter, what'd they do to my hands?" Peter felt as though a cold stone had dropped in his stomach. He grabbed Neal's wrist and turned it over, swallowing down his gag reflex as he looked at the damage done to those delicate hands.

"Neal…It'll all be ok. Don't worry about it."

"Peter." Neal pleaded, his voice cracking. Tears slide down his cheeks, taking some small amount of dirt with it. "Just tell me. They hurt." Peter looked at the hand again. Neal's fingers were curled in loosely, shielding his palms but the older man could still see the wounds.

It looked as though someone had tried to cut away the soft tissues of the hand, scraping away the ridges and meat. The pads of his fingertips had been cut away. His hands were bloodied and swollen, some of the deeper cuts still oozing an odd colored mixture of yellow pus and blood.

It somehow felt worse that they had attacked Neal's hands. He'd spent years chasing Neal solely because of those gifted fingers. To see them defiled like this was horribly wrong.

"They cut them, Neal." He said softly as Diana ran her fingers over his hair lightly. The former con shuddered at his words.

"I need my hands…" His voice faded slightly as he took his arm away from Peter, examining the wounds for himself. "Peter, they hurt." He tried to sit up, but Peter and Diana laid him down again.

"Just stay down, Neal." Diana said gently. "We don't know how bad you're hurt. You don't need to make anything worse."

"Nothing's broken." He argued, sitting up more forcefully. He looked at Peter, his lips trembling. "My hands hurt. They hurt."

"I know, Neal, I know. It'll be ok. I promise. You're gonna be fine." He decided to try and distract Neal from the pain. "What happened?"

"They took me. They cut my hands. Why? Peter, why'd this happen?" Peter swallowed. He was wondering the same thing. Neal took a shaky breath. "My hands…Peter, Peter help." He wished he could. At that moment he'd give anything to take away Neal's pain and fear.

The poor man must be starving, he thought. He probably hadn't been fed after he'd been taken. Peter was assuming Neal had been in the basement for the duration of his absence, with nothing to eat or drink.

"It'll be ok, Neal. I promise, it'll all be ok."

"But my hands. My hands, Peter." Peter looked at Diana questioningly. Neal didn't seem to be listening to him.

"You'll be fine, Neal." Diana whispered, stroking his hair gently.

"No, no, no. My hands. They hurt."

"I know they do. Just relax for a few more minutes and then you'll be on your way to the hospital, ok?"

"But my hands. Just make them stop hurting. Please?" Diana touched her hand to his forehead, trying to soothe him when she noticed something.

"He's got a fever, boss." Neal ignored her.

"Peter, Peter, please. They hurt. Make it stop. Peter, please." Peter fought back emotion. He needed to be strong for Neal.

"Diana, go see what's taking that damn bus so long." She left wordlessly, knowing he didn't really expect the ambulance to be here already. Peter had a feeling Neal was close to breaking down and he knew the young man would appreciate the privacy.

"Peter…" Neal whined before he could hold back the tears no longer. He leaned into Peter's shoulder, his body shaking. "They hurt! They hurt, oh god, they hurt. Make it stop, please make it st-op!" He cried.

Peter felt helpless. He'd never seen Neal so vulnerable before. He rubbed his back, feeling the way his shirt stuck to him with blood and sweat. He'd never felt so enraged before in his life. He wanted to personally shoot the people who'd done this to his friend. His partner.

Neal tried to move his wounded hand and cried out in pain. The sound sent chills down Peter's spine as it resonated in the hollow space of the basement. He cried wordlessly, trembling as Peter pulled him close, feeling the feverish heat that radiated off of him.

"You're gonna be ok, buddy. It's all gonna be fine." Neal moaned weakly, his hands tucked up to his chest.

"They hurt…they hurt." He whispered. Peter sighed. He wished Neal was more coherent but, with a little luck, the younger man wouldn't remember much of this. Peter hoped the fever-haze he was in would at least help him forget. Though, even if Neal didn't recall it, Peter was sure this was a scene that would revisit him in his nightmares.

"I know, I know." Peter rubbed small circles on Neal's back, wishing there was something he could do to take the pain away. "Just a few more minutes, alright? You're gonna be fine, you're doing great." Neal shivered. After a moment, he pulled away from Peter, vomiting bile onto the floor. He tried to catch himself with his hands, but the pain was too much; he almost collapsed to the ground before Peter caught him, pulling him back to his lap.

He brushed the limp hair off of Neal's forehead as he tested the fever himself. Even with his lack of experience, he knew it was too high. The younger man moaned softly, his eyes closing.

"My hands…Peter, please…" Peter looked down at the hands again, insides twisting when he saw the layer of dirt and grime that now coated them, sticking to the fluids that oozed out of the wounds. He wished Neal would lose consciousness already and be spared the pain. "Oh god!" Neal turned, retching again, barely bringing anything up. Peter could feel the violent muscle spasms under his hands, the way his beaten-down body struggled against the pain and infection that had set in.

When Neal finally collapsed back into Peter's arms, the conman was almost hysterical, hiccupping sobs wracking his frame. His words, if he was even trying to say any, were unintelligible. He gasped for breath, like there wasn't enough air in the room.

"Neal…Neal, close your eyes." The younger man obeyed, letting his eyes fall closed. "Alright, just relax, ok? Breathe with me, Neal." Slowly, Neal's breathing evened out. "Just go to sleep, buddy, alright? Just sleep. When you wake up, everything'll be better." He kept his voice gentle, hoping to lull his partner to sleep. Instead, Neal shook his head.

"Can't. Hands…Peter, make it stop." Peter sighed, leaning into the wall for support.

"Neal, I wish I could."

"Please, Peter, please." Neal begged. He gasped when he moved his arms, the slightest movement sending jarring pain through his hands. Peter saw his face pale and for a sick second he hoped Neal _would_ pass out, just to escape the pain.

Forearms crossed across his chest, hands not touching anything, Neal tried to curl tighter into himself. Peter could feel the way his muscles shook and knew that, despite his deceptive strength, Neal wouldn't be able to outlast this for much longer; he was fighting for consciousness.

"Just relax, you'll be ok soon. Let go, I've got you."

"Promise?" Neal asked tearfully, his fever glazed eyes searching Peter's face for the truth. Peter nodded, wiping tear drops from Neal's face and then tilting his chin up so their eyes met fully.

"I promise." He moved his hand and watched with a small amount of comfort as Neal's head lowered and he finally went limp in his arms, escaping the misery just as the sirens could be heard.


End file.
